


The Pursuit of Happiness

by oddishly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 13:04:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3069041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddishly/pseuds/oddishly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam wonders how they got to a place where even demons don’t remember which side the Winchesters are on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pursuit of Happiness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sonofabiscuit77](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofabiscuit77/gifts).



> glovered is the best of people. thank you glovered! <3

Sam thinks his soul is fucking Dean in Hell, now it’s been ripped out of him again. He's a bit hazy on timelines, doesn’t really remember losing his soul a second time and hasn’t asked Dean about it, and he mostly tries not to think about what’s going on downstairs. 

But he knows that anything Lucifer can come up with isn't as inventive as what God did when he put Sam into Dean's arms and told him to trust him with his life. Sam's got it on his own good authority that wanting to fuck that against a wall and over the car and in the schoolyard and in front of their dad is torture.

So the Sam up here with the tatters of a soul fucks in again and feels good when Dean groans out long and helpless. It's only fair that he should get to do this too. He's not the one in Hell, after all.

He's got Dean bent over the washbasin and pressing into the mirror, both versions of him all flushed and anguished. Dean thinks he knows Sam so well, and that was probably true once but even just the one tour in Hell changes a guy. Sam doesn’t feel like dealing with all that familial angst right now so he bends down the line of Dean’s back on his fuck out and says, "Stop caring so much, you'll find it easier." 

Dean groans again, louder, and Sam shrugs, thrusting in.

 

 

If there are any other soulless hunters driving around America, Sam hasn't met them yet. 

Demons aren't very interested in his brother anymore, not even to kill him, or tie him up and fuck him. The larger part of the population of Hell have told Sam about that fantasy, some even before learning who they're telling it to. Usually when that happened they got angry. Very angry. Lucifer had never minded that.

The Sam who isn't afraid of clowns anymore suppresses a shudder. Dean glances sideways, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. "What's up with you?"

Sam gestures at the car crawling along in front of them. "Places to be." 

They've got a bone to pick with Crowley. Fucker keeps on up and vanishing, and now Sam and Dean are stuck following a soccer mom who doesn't know how to handle her 4x4 to catch up with him. 

Sam cranes his neck against the window to try and spot the next gas station. They don't know this road; one of the few they haven't driven down before.

Dean grunts and takes one hand off the wheel to readjust his dick in his pants. Sam left him with a line of come down his thigh before they set off and if Dean wants rid of it then he's going to have to get over his problem with sex on freeways.

They drive through lunch because Dean's not talking to Sam and Sam's too busy leaning his head against the window with his eyes shut to talk to Dean. When they finally stop for gas, Sam's daydream about two large burgers and an extra large Dr Pepper is interrupted by a spotty teenager leaning against the other side of the pump, reeking of small-town dust and listlessness. Or pot. Maybe that's what it is.

"Got a light?"

"No," says Sam. "We're standing on 4,000 gallons of lighter fluid."

The kid slinks around the pump to Sam's side. "Want a fuck?"

Sam sighs. "Was that your line? No, don't tell me. I don't want to fuck you," he says. "I've got better any time I feel like it."

The kid's eyes widen as Dean walks up with a multipack of Funyuns and a giant cup of soda. "All right, Sammy?"

"I'm just dandy," says Sam. He ushers Dean into the car, not bothering to lower his voice as he says, "Holden here just offered to let me fuck him, but I told him you were better."

Dean gets them back on the freeway. They're heading for Diggins, Missouri, a village in the Ozarks with a Growrow problem. Crowley's 500 miles away in Chicago, but Sam's got a new machete he wants to try out and horned dragons seem as good a candidate as any. He slides down the seat and tips his head back, curling his fingers as if the machete is already in his hand.

Dean waits until they're back at 90 before continuing the conversation. He clears his throat and Sam opens his eyes. "Do you have to--share like that?"

Sam sits up a little to look at him properly. Dean's never been the bashful type before. "Really?" He doesn't think he's going to change his behaviour but it's interesting to know that Dean has.

Dean makes an _eh_ gesture. "Just trying to keep it on the DL."

"I can't help being proud of you. And your ass. I like telling people about it."

"That's what I mean," mutters Dean. His heart doesn't seem to be in it, though, and his flush is more proud than anything.

 

 

They're two hours from Diggins when Dean slows down and says, "Recognise this?"

"I beat off thinking about this every day last time we were here," pants Sam against a window as Dean drives his dick inside him. They're around the side of the adult bookstore they lived above for three weeks as kids, the car and the dying dusk shielding them from view from the road. Sam flattens his hands against the glass, wondering if there's anyone watching from the other side of the net curtain. "Usually twice. Three times." 

"Well, weren't you the sick fuck," says Dean into his shoulder, "isn't 14 kind of young for incest?"

Sam snorts and drops his hand to his cock. "Incest was the least of it, dude."

Sam's found he likes the thrill of returning. Nothing that's going to get them beaten up by a husband or school teacher who might recognise them, just a quick visit to this diner or that convenience store. They don't always have sex, but this bookstore saw a lot of solo action, and Sam thinks it's only right that he does one better while he's here.

Dean laughs a bit as he grabs Sam’s hip, a little lower down than usual to avoid a black bruise that stretches all around Sam’s body. “Forgot to tell you about the demon,” he says through his fuck. “I bumped into one when you were getting your burgers.”

“Yeah?” says Sam. He heaves a breath and runs his fingers down to his balls to give them a gentle squeeze. “What happened?”

“He jumped on me from around the corner,” says Dean, “and then he realised who he’d jumped on, and looked--” he stops to swear about the tight, sweet fit of his cock in Sam’s ass “--kind of surprised. And _then_ \--”

Sam groans and pushes back into him, forehead pressed against the windowpane.

“--I start exorcising him, and he got this look on his face--” Dean stops again to strip Sam’s cock “--like he was freaked as _fuck_ , and left the building. Bam. Gone.”

“What do you mean, left the building?” manages Sam. His head is spinning, Dean’s hand tight on his cock and jerking him in time with his thrusts.

“Left the suit,” says Dean. “Just upped and smoked out, three seconds after I start giving it the old _exorcizamus te--_ ”

Dean comes before he can finish explaining, cursing with his teeth in Sam’s shoulder and kindly remembering to make a fist for Sam to fuck into his own orgasm. They're back on the road before either of them have their breath back, Sam still tucking himself into his jeans as Dean spins away.

“Weird about the exorcising thing,” says Sam as they hurtle down the freeway some time later. “The demon leave you any clues?”

Dean shrugs it off easily. “Gave me one hell of a fucking rush, though,” he says, “could’ve shot a load right there.”

 

 

They arrive in Diggins to find the Growrow taking bites out of the mayor. It's an ugly thing, still just a baby but 15 feet long or more with a whip tail and vicious, curved horns on its skull. The mayor's husband is propped up against the front door with his leg bent at an agonising angle, slumped over the bodies of two boys while his wife screams in the backyard.

"Leave him," snaps Dean as they run past, "he's no good to us like that." Sam averts his eyes from the two small bodies, trying to remember if he would ever have stopped.

They leap together at the dragon, Sam with his machete, Dean with a firebrand made of kitchen cabinet. There's no definitive way of killing Growrows but hacking its head off seems like a good place to start, so Sam waits for Dean to distract it with his torch before scrambling up its back, correctly guessing that it’s too young for its spikes to amount to anything more than scaly ridges under his hands. The dragon takes a moment to realise what the extra weight is on its neck, and when it does it roars, tail snapping inches above Sam’s back.

“Get sawing, Sammy!” yells Dean, running around somewhere under Sam with his torch aimed at the dragon’s belly.

With a combination of weapons and some roaring and stomping around from the Growrow later, Sam and Dean have its head more off than on. It’s fallen on its side in the grassy backyard, fence debris and the gory remains of the mayor all around.

“You all right?”

“Yeah,” says Sam. He wipes his face with his forearm. “Think we can burn this right here?”

Dean nods, giving the body a disgusted look. Its skin is oozing and foul-smelling now that they’re not running around trying to kill it. Sam really doesn’t want to have to put that in the back of the car.

They light up the Growrow and watch the mayor’s widower through the flames, and leave with instructions to the neighbour to bury the remains where he can. “Probably not right there,” says Dean, helpfully pointing to the backyard still lit up, the acrid smell of burning dragonflesh hanging in the air. Then they get in the car and drive.

 

 

Next day, they’re well on their way to Chicago and Crowley when they decide to stop early for the night. The clerk at Sam's fourth motel of choice looks terrified and starts fumbling around under the desk when Dean hefts his bag of knives up on the counter with a series of clinks and asks for a room.

"Dude," says Sam. "Don't worry. That's -- pig's blood. It's -- we're butchers."

Sam’s been looking forward to a bed and and a shower and a fuck since they set off that morning, strangely on edge after fighting the dragon. It’s a kick in the teeth when the clerk refuses to let them in, telling them there’s no vacancies even though there are only two other cars in the parking lot.

“You know--” begins Sam loudly.

“Thanks anyway, man,” interrupts Dean, and hauls Sam out of the door with their bag of weapons.

“Our fake credit cards are just as good as anyone else’s,” says Sam through his teeth. He’s cold and tired and he wants a blowjob. 

“I’ll leave these in the car next time,” says Dean, indicating the knives. Whatever’s gotten into Sam hasn’t done shit to Dean, who’s been whistling along to his tapes all day as they drove. “What? I’m in a good mood, Sammy. Put down a monster yesterday, got a night in bed with my brother to look forward to, no demons in sight--oh.”

Sam peers to see whatever it is that Dean can see. Between arrival and leaving, someone else has driven up to park their car next to the Impala in the motel lot.

"Wait," says Dean, frowning. "Isn't that --?"

“Yeah,” says Sam. It’s the same 4x4 that they were stuck behind two days ago, same soccer mom driver, only this time she’s a dead soccer mom and there’s a demon in the passenger seat poking at some fancy sacrificial cup of blood.

Sam raps on the driver's window with his gun. The demon jumps and looks up.

Sam blinks. “Holden?”

Yesterday’s spotty teenager sighs and manouevres its way behind the soccer mom’s body to wind the window three inches down. "Can I help you?”

"You want to reconsider what you’re doing there?" says Dean.

The demon glares at him. "No. I've got to talk to -- someone. I'm late." It turns the key to look at the time. "So late. Shit.” It looks at Sam. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Sam. How’s topside treating you?”

Sam and Dean exchange looks. Dean drops his bag of knives and takes an even bigger blade out of his belt.

" _What_ ," says the demon to Dean. "You got a call to make, too?" It pushes the body sideways, profferring the jugular. “Be my guest, just make it snappy.”

"No," says Dean. "You've got some wires crossed, pal." He sticks the knife back in his belt, then realises what he’s done and takes it out again. 

The demon looks frustrated. "Then -- "

Sam grabs the knife out of Dean's hand, yanks the car door open and plants the blade in the demon's chest. He doesn't wait around to watch it shriek, just yanks the knife right back out and wipes the blood off on the dead mom’s coat.

He looks at Dean. "That was weird."

“Yeah,” says Dean. He eyes the blood now pooling in both footwells. Sam wrinkles his nose and doesn’t. “You want to go persuade the guy in there to give us a room?”

“Let’s keep driving,” says Sam. He’s lost his appetite.

 

 

It happens again, late at night, when they eventually find a motel that’ll take them. They’re in a bedroom in central Illinois, a woman whose life they really should be saving just a couple miles away. Instead Sam’s on his knees for Dean with the door left swinging, and there’s something clattering along in the hallway.

It’s kind of a surprise that Dean hasn’t noticed, although maybe he just hasn’t said anything.

Sam goes down on him again, holding his knees wide apart, tight against the bed so he can’t buck up. 

“That’s real good, Sam,” Dean mumbles to the ceiling. Sam gives him an encouraging lick and Dean groans and tightens his fingers in the duvet. Sam sinks lower, eyes wide to watch.

He looks out into the hall as he slides back up, and realises the clatterer in the hallway is a demon.

The demon scowls when it catches sight of them. “Winchesters,” it says over its shoulder and the bundle of limbs that used to make up someone’s body, hooked over its elbow. Sam wrinkles his nose and comes off. He fists Dean's cock, frowning at the demon outside the door without saying anything. Dean slumps back onto his elbows on the bed.

“That the best you could do?” says the demon, gesturing down at the salt line blocking off their room. “Which side of this did you want me on, anyway?”

Sam shrugs going down, allowing Dean to fuck his mouth this time. The salt line is half-hearted at best, more a salt … perforation.

Sam wonders if he’s going to have to think about stopping to do something about the demon, but luckily for everyone the motel manager comes along and needs deterring from calling the cops before the line is put to the test. 

Sam lets the demon get on with it, figuring Dean won't have any objection as long as they at least pretend they're going to get angry about it later.

"Sammy," mumbles Dean while the manager gurgles on the other side of the door. Sam squeezes his fingers to acknowledge him. Dean holds his thought.

The demon laden down with body parts takes advantage of the lull and turns back to its door. A lone elbow falls out of the pile. Sam leans over Dean's knees to watch it roll out of sight.

"Sammy," says Dean again, and Sam refocuses. "You got another brother waiting for a handjob out there?"

Sam considers. "Not unless it’s Adam wearing that meatsuit." Which it could be. Of course there's nothing to say he's not waiting for a handjob down in Hell. At least one of the two of them has a predisposition for fucking their brother and if it's not genetic it's probably catching. Sam smirks.

Dean’s eyes go dark. Sam bends over his cock and takes the head into his mouth. A ten minute’s drive away, some woman is about to find herself at the hands of her seven dead daughters, but they’ll deal with that in the morning. For now Sam just wants to get off, and get a good night’s sleep. 

In the hall, the demon continues dropping body parts. “Shit,” it says under its breath. Sam ignores it, too busy focusing on breathing.


End file.
